


earth to captain grand slam

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Crushes, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benoit checks out Stan’s ass a lot. But it’s just a crush. Until Stan catches him looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	earth to captain grand slam

It’s just a crush.

Crushes are fun. Distracting, yes. Maddening, yes. But then there’s the moment when your crush turns to you and smiles, and you get all giddy – or maybe they bend over to grab a beer out of the refrigerator, and you’re suddenly licking dry lips and trying to remember how to breathe. Crushes are fizzy liquid in your veins, adrenaline and blushes and dizzy daydreams all wrapped up into one, and Benoît for one intends to enjoy every single moment of his.

Sadly, Stan is straight. Benoît’s met Stan’s wife, bounced Stan’s daughter on his knee. He’s caught Stan trying to be a gentleman and not stare at women’s boobs (and failing). He’s walked in on Stan watching porn, beating it to two busty women kissing each other and … well, no. That one’s only a fantasy. It usually ends with Benoît declaring his lust and them rolling around on the floor wrestling for dominance.

Anyway. It’s just a crush. Benoît knows Stan’s straight, he’s glad to be his friend, and he figures, what Stan doesn’t know won’t hurt him. So what if his gay best friend has a teensy crush on him? He never needs to know that Benoît has had more than one fabulous orgasm imagining him on his knees in the shower, or on his hands and knees on Ben’s bed, or with his head thrown back in ecstasy.

(Ben is good at delivering ecstasy. All of his previous partners have been wholly satisfied. Point of pride.)

The current problem, however, is that Stan’s started wearing these tight jeans. And Stan and casual clothing… well. The thing is, once he takes a liking to a particular article of clothing, he wears it for _months_. Months! These jeans are enough to raise Benoît’s blood pressure with only a few _minutes_ of exposure – he doesn’t know how he’s going to manage being around them for months. Stan already has a fantastic ass. (Benoît knows. He’s spent time analysing this attribute.) He doesn’t need _help_ in accentuating it.

But you can’t exactly tell your best friend to stop wearing his favourite pair of jeans because they make _your_ jeans get tight in the crotch area. 

“Bleu?” Stan asks, with an air of perfunctory confirmation. Benoît always has his burgers the same way – bleu enough to meuh. He likes his burgers bleu, his men muscular, and his tennis wacky. He’s a complicated guy.

“Bleu,” Benoît agrees, and Stan smiles at him, dropping the burger patties on the grill. He’s the best barbecue-wielder around, no question, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the calumnious accusation that Benoît is too lazy to take his turn manning the grill. Stan’s just better, that’s all, and Ben has no qualms about admitting the fact. He’s a grownup.

His feeling of righteous holiness, however, is punctured when Stan drops the mustard bottle and, with a muttered “fuck”, bends over to pick it up off the ground.

Stan’s ass is enough to make an angel sing, if she was a rather slutty angel, anyway. (Benoît’s not judging. ‘Rather slutty angel’ would make a great epitaph for his tombstone, he thinks.) Benoît watches it, resisting the urge to lick his lips, and enjoys his great good fortune at being presented with the opportunity to ogle it on a regular basis. (No, he doesn’t drop things on purpose to get Stan to bend over. That would be rude. Also, Stan stopped picking things up for him a _long_ time ago. But Stan drops things often enough on his own, bless the Lord of slutty angels.)

Stan straightens, and turns around just a second before Benoît’s expecting him to. Ben doesn’t quite jerk his eyes up guiltily, but it’s a close thing. 

Every other time Benoît’s almost been caught looking, Stan’s ignored it. But perhaps this time he’s had just enough beer to loosen his tongue. Or maybe Benoît was especially obvious this time. Whatever the reason, Stan’s eyebrow goes up, and Ben knows he’s been well and truly caught.

He could try some lame excuse, like, ‘You, uh, have mustard on your jeans.’ But Benoît disdains such pretense. He just tries to look as innocent as possible, and gives his best stare back.

“You were checking me out,” Stan says, flatly.

Okay, so that didn’t really work. Maybe Benoît’s not the most innocent-looking guy. JC always says that if some people have faces only a mother could love, Benoît has a face that would send a mother straight to check the biscuit tin. He decides to go for brazen instead of innocent. “So?”

Stan cocks his head to one side. Haha, cocks. “You were checking me out.”

“You have a really good ass,” Benoît says, driven to truth out of desperation. Stan has a scarily penetrating glare. Also Benoît’s not good at lying. “And those jeans are tight. It’s hard not to look, jesus, you might as well have a big target painted on it.”

Perhaps too much truth.

“You think I have a nice ass,” Stan repeats, slowly. 

“Earth to Captain Grand Slam,” Benoît says, crossing his arms. “It’s not news that people have crushes on you. You’re always getting offers. So, maybe I have a little one too. It’s not a _thing_ , it’s just, well, you’re hot. It’s a compliment.”

“You have a crush on me,” Stan says. (This repeating thing is getting old. If Stan didn’t have such a nice ass – and such nice abs – and such nice other parts - _not that Ben’s been looking_ \- the repeating thing might have led him to question Stan’s intelligence. Just a little bit. But as it is, prettiness excuses many sins.)

Benoît sighs and lets his head thunk back against the deck chair. “Yes.”

“But you’re straight,” Stan says, finally not repeating.

Benoît brings his head up again, because such a hilarious statement demands his best amused eyebrows. “Dude. When have I _ever_ been straight?”

Stan sits down in a chair, looking faintly shell-shocked. “Since you keep hitting on all those supermodels on Twitter. And meeting up with them in Paris and texting us all with pictures of all the hot supermodels you’re hooking up with. And having a girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend was a teenager thing,” Benoît says, waving a finger at him. “And the supermodels, well, yes, I teased you, but really, a guy can be friends with girls without fucking them, it’s not, like, in the bro-code…”

“No, but seriously,” Stan says, looking oddly intent. “You’re not straight?”

Benoît raises an eyebrow. “You want me to prove it to you?”

He supposes he could go get a picture of his ex-boyfriend. He’s got one, somewhere. There’s the pair of them mooning a friend on a tennis court, white asses under the moonlight, but sadly Stan isn’t familiar enough with his butt to identify it in a lineup. He’s got one of him made up with glitter butterfly wings on his face – shut up, he was seventeen – but that’s just too embarrassing to share.

Stan breaks into his memories. “Yeah,” he says. He still looks odd. “Prove it to me.”

He could tell the story of the time he sucked a guy off in the bathroom at a junior Slam, or the time… but then Benoît looks at Stan more closely, and the wildest thought flies into his brain.

He’d thought Stan looked shell-shocked. And he does, but not in the ‘oh god, I’m friends with a gay guy’ way, or in the ‘oh god, a gay guy was checking me out’ way, or even in the ‘oh god, a gay guy has a crush on me and wants to jump my bones’ way. He looks like…

Benoît gets up from his chair, takes two steps towards Stan, and then sinks, exquisitely slowly, down to his knees. “Prove it?” he says, chin lifted in challenge, face close to Stan’s own.

Stan swallows, his eyes drifting down to Ben’s lips, and Benoît knows he’s right.

“I can do that,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss him.

If a whole choir of angels – slutty or otherwise – had popped into existence above their heads at that moment, and begun singing “Hosanna Fucking Finally”, Benoît wouldn’t have even heard them. Stan’s ass may be fantastic, but Stan’s mouth on his is so far beyond fantastic, fantastic is in the next _country_. Stan kisses like he hits his backhand, like it’s the thing he’s been put on this earth to do, and when he makes an impatient noise and brings his hands up to hold Benoît still in order to kiss him even more deeply, Benoît about dies from bliss.

“So I’m guessing,” he says, when they finally break apart to catch their breaths, “that you’re not entirely straight either.”

“What gave me away?” Stan asks, his eyes laughing. “My fabulous ass? My fashion sense?”

“Your ass is indeed fabulous, but your fashion sense is atrocious,” Benoît says, lacing their fingers together. “I have these supermodel friends you should let me introduce you to. They’d do wonders for you.”

“Must have been the kissing, then,” Stan says, then plays entirely unfair by opening his mouth against Benoît’s neck and bringing both tongue and teeth to bear.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Ben manages, in between remembering to breathe and trying to pretend that he has a little dignity, instead of climbing into Stan’s lap and plastering himself to that perfect body.

Stan hmms, sending goosebumps across Benoît’s skin. “Thought you were straight. Didn’t want to make things weird. A little crush never hurt anybody.”

“You mean,” Benoît says, darkly, “that all this time I’ve been imagining you naked, I could have _actually had you naked_?”

Stan brings his head up again in order to grin at him, wide and free. Benoît’s stomach does a little flip. “You could’ve had your hands on my ass instead of just staring at it.”

Okay, that’s it. Upstairs. Now. Magnus is due back soon, but, well, if Stan’s bedroom door is shut and Benoît makes enough noise – and he doesn’t think that’ll be an issue – Magnus is smart enough to put two and two together and leave them alone. Magnus is a clever guy. Unlike the two of them, apparently.

“Don’t you want dinner first?” Stan protests, when Benoît gets up and starts trying to tug him bodily across the garden by his wrist. “The burgers are ready.”

It’s a terrible choice. Stan’s body, or Stan’s burgers. Benoît looks between them, irresolute.

“Besides,” Stan says, getting the adorable little sneaky grin on his face that Benoît adores, “you’ll need to fuel up before I get my hands on you.”

“Bring the burgers,” Benoît says, in a voice he hardly recognises as his own. Stan’s going to be the death of him. _La petite mort_ , and _la mort réelle_. 

An hour ago, it was just a little crush. Now, it might just be the start of something much more. 

Benoît grins. He can’t wait.


End file.
